Chopin came to play against me tonight. Everyone calls him that because he likes to listen to the late composer's music, often blaring it in the early morning so loudly that it can be easily heard while walking past his door. He's a junkie and an alcoholic. I know because I've seen him smoke meth on the third floor walkway, oblivious to the rest of the world while taking hits of that sweet, sweet crystal. He's always up at night, always walking around with his cane and getting into different cars in the parking lot, most likely to join other junkies in meth-fueled adventures not for the faint of heart.

But he's cool to me and that's all that matters, I suppose. He wears round glasses with real thin frames and most of his bony face is obscured by a wicked mustache I wouldn't be able to grow even if I was spliced with hairy DNA. When he showed up he didn't say a word. He only watched me for a minute until I asked him if he wanted to play. He didn't say yes. Instead, he only asked for a cue.

We played two games and I barely beat him, which didn't satisfy me at all. I'm still learning not to underestimate anybody, and I guess I didn't expect our games to be so close because I've never seen him playing downstairs. I just assumed he'd be so rusty that I'd shoot circles around him and leave most of his balls on the table, but that shit didn't happen. After warming up, he developed the effortless stroke of someone who'd played many games in their life, made some impressive banks, and almost ran out on me during our second game. But I clawed my way back after a series of errors that brought his balls together, making things considerably harder for him.

Before our games, he did say one more thing after asking for a cue. "Good luck."

And after I sank my last eight ball I turned to him and said, "Good game."

He chuckled as he left and said he'd see me again, but I didn't respond. I tried not to show it but I was fuming inside, and only told myself that I'd wipe the floor with him next time.

A disturbing pattern during our set was that I kept missing shots that normally would've been no problem, and you can imagine how demoralizing that was for me, repeatedly watching my confident balls be denied their pockets while witnessing his own gradual successes. I beat him, yes, but it wasn't convincing. To be honest, I only beat him because he beat himself. I could feel that he was the better player. I could feel that he gifted me my victories, handing them over on polished platters, and that fucking annoyed me.

Missing so much felt like all of the time I've spent practicing was for nothing. It was an insult to all of my effort, a gooey wad of spit in the exhausted face of my training.

I practiced for a bit after he left, but I wasn't interested. I dragged myself around the table, sagging down into position and not caring if I missed a ball or not. I ending things early and as I'm typing this I'm actually amazed, while thinking back, at how much our emotions play such a role in influencing our performances at the table.

And what's funny is that even though I practiced on my own, it didn't (and doesn't) feel rewarding. I don't feel like I reinforced any positive habits. I turned lazy because of my bitterness. I hated the game because of my failures.

I wonder how worthwhile pool would be if I never missed. I know missing is a part of the game, but that doesn't eliminate how sour it makes me feel.